Memories of the Quiet Times
by WriterDrone61
Summary: But really, no time was quiet with Sherlock Holmes
1. Chapter 1

John here. My doctor said that I should keep this going and I know it's been two months since I've written anything. I really don't even know if anyone still reads this. I decided to write about some of the times between cases. Sherlock really could be such a dick. Every moment of living with him was work. It kept me busy though and I loved it. I'll write about it all. The best times, the worst time. The not infrequent times where I just wanted to kill him myself. Every moment with him is as clear as a photograph in my mind.

When we first started sharing our flat we did it out of order. First we solved a case and then I moved in. He was actually quite helpful in getting my boxes up the stairs. I don't remember if I wrote this, and I don't much care to go back and look, but when we had that first dinner he'd stated that he wouldn't eat and he "had a few more days." He hadn't eaten in days and I was surprised as his energy. Well, after a good night's rest and three servings of chinese he had even more. And then there was none. As soon as all my boxes were in, he was done. He laid down on the couch, he'd never even changed out of his pajamas, and slept. He slept all day.

I went to bed and he was still asleep. I figured the next morning he'd gotten up in the night but I could find no evidence of it. He was still asleep. He only woke when I put my face right in his to make sure he was breathing.

"John. You'll remember..." he started in a very delicate tone that I would not come to expect, "I do consider myself married to my work."

I rested back, facing him "You've been asleep since yesterday."

"That is par for the course." He sat up and stretched.

"You usually sleep all day?"

"Sometimes more than that." He sat up and stretched.

"You'll learn when to wake me." I wouldn't learn for a few more weeks that he meant 'Wake me when there is a case, not before.' He seemed to have little passion for much else. Cases came three times a week and then not for the rest of the month. It seemed crime wasn't steady. And it didn't pay.

Unlike myself, he never was short on money. I could scarcely imagine why he needed a flatmate. And as inconsiderate as he could be, as inhumanly cruel he could be, he was never greedy. If I found myself short, from day one he would hand over his card, no questions asked.

I had to ask first.

I sat down that day and rubbed my face.

"You need money?" he asked. We'd lived together two months at this point.

"I am three pound-fifty short."

"Put it on my card." He said. I'd expected that.

"Don't you just have three fifty? I feel really bad using your card every time I am short."

"Why?" He asked.

"Why?" I responded. It seemed natural to me that one would feel bad, putting fifty pounds of food and toiletries on someone else's card.

"Yes. It doesn't bother me" he paused "and it's my money. Why should it bother you if it doesn't bother me?"

"It's just..." As usual, I couldn't find a rational reason. It's surprisingly hard to talk about having just a feeling with no basis with Sherlock. It makes him want to analyze you until he tells you why you feel that way. "I guess it just does. If it really doesn't bother you, I will just use it for everything. I'll keep it."

"Fine" he said, staring me dead in the eye the smallest smile on his face. I couldn't tell if he was being funny or playful, but I took it as a challenge.

"Fine." I stood up. "That's just fine." I was getting angry. It was completely irrational. "Fine." I walked out the door. I can't know what he did while I was away. While I shopped, I enjoyed picturing him hunched over his computer, watching his bank account dwindle away.

I returned to the store I'd been short at. I put away everything and bought the better versions of the same stuff. Imported cheese, High quality cuts of meat. Everything was excessive. I got new clothes and purchased everything I could get a hold of. To top it off, I paid someone to help me carry it all with money I got from the teller machine. I carried the first of the stuff up the stairs and I triumphed. I had done it. This would make him angry. He would... God I pictured him being so angry. As angry as he made me on a regular basis.

I came into the living room where he was typing something. He glanced up passively as I entered with my bag.

"Oh wait!" I said eagerly "There's more" I went quickly down the steps and gathered the rest.

When I got back, he didn't even look up. "Do you need help with the rest?"

"That's all." I said, I remember placing my hands on my hips, my feet buried in a pile of new things. "That's" I looked at it all. It wasn't working "That's it."

"Please tell me you are getting the suits fitted properly at the very least. They had better not be in those suit bags you dropped."

"No. They are just suits."

He stood up and picked up the suit bag "Well, take them back and get them fitted. If you are getting a suit, you are getting one done right. I'll put the rest of this away." He never offered to put stuff away. He was just toying with me. "Go on. You still have the card."

I was completely stunned. I turned and walked out the door, back to the suit store. It took two hours to get the measurements and adjustments right and the suit would be done in three days. When I got home, Sherlock was sitting on the couch with my laptop this time. Everything was put away.

I stormed off to my room after that. I couldn't say or do anything. He'd won. He always won. Except when he didn't. He lost big the only time I saw him lose. 


	2. Chapter 2

Another time that stands out vividly, from the early days. The first time I saw him really laugh. On the first case I had eaten but he hadn't. I was worried. He had said he hadn't eaten in days. That became the pattern. A few small cases went and I tried to show my solidarity by abstaining, but he was attentive and made sure we ended up somewhere with food. After each case we went to Chinese. This seventh case or so, he insisted on take-away. He said he wanted to be home. He looked tired.

He ordered, handed me his card and left. I paid out of my pocket, this was before my break-down where I bought everything I could think of. It was just too weird to use another man's card. I wasn't even sure it was legal... Then again, I had just helped him break into a vualt at the police station for evidence. When I got back, he was flat on his back on the couch. I took the chair and started passing the food out.

"Set it on my chest." He said as I held it out to him. "Open." I hesitated for a long time. I had been given many orders up to that point in my life, and subject to a few hazings... But that request caught me off guard.

Finally, I remember, I pulled the top open, put a fork in it and sat it on his chest. He just laid there a minute before reaching for a napkin. He spread it out on his upper chest and tipped the container towards his face. Fried rice spilled out of it.

"Oh, Sherlock!" I said, sounding more like a mother than a room mate. He calmly began scooping it into his mouth. I hadn't seen that coming until it was done. But he looked content with the situation

"You're lucky I bothered with the napkin." What he was saying was 'You need to do my laundry.'

Equal to his energy on the job was his sluggishness without a case. He didn't expend any energy he didn't need to.

"Don't spill any on the couch." I said, starting my own. He picked a few pieces of rice that had rolled off the napkin and dropped them on the floor. I sighed and went to sit at the table. I ended up back in the chair. There were a handful of dead lab mice on the table. It was a safe bet that whatever killed them was still over there and it probably looked like salt.

That was the first time I heard him really laugh. He watched me from his position, all the while stuffing his face. It started slowly as I walked back to the seat. His chest, and the food, rose and fell sharply. We locked eyes as I lowered myself into the seat. That was it. We both started laughing. He had a heartier laugh than I expected. It made rice bounce around. On the couch, on the floor. I thought it was funny despite my earlier instruction.

We finished the food, chuckling occasionally. He started to close his eyes, food still everywhere.

"Oh no you don't! You roll on your sleep."

"So?" he rose his head.

"You are covered in food."

"Well, get it off me."

"Take your shirt off."

"Later."

"Fine." I grabbed the vacuum and plugged it in. I got the extension hose and vacuumed him clean. I got along his sides, even the floor. I rolled him over and got under him. It was like moving furniture to vacuum. I should have realized then that I would never get him to do anything he didn't want to.

I threw the shirt away the next day while he showered. He walked around shirtless for the next week in retaliation.

I opened all the blinds and curtains, he took his trousers off.

I invited some friends over, Lestrade had to come over and explain that he could and should be arrested for what he did.

He spent the night in custody. That was my fault... telling him to answer the door. 


End file.
